


Scars to Bruises

by Atsvie



Category: Deadpool (Comics), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse, Choking, M/M, Sexual Sadism, Teenager Abuse, Trigger Warnings, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atsvie/pseuds/Atsvie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is scared. He knows neither of them want this, but they can't stop. How Wade being a sexual sadist affects his relationships.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars to Bruises

**Author's Note:**

> Written for gazzymouse's [gif set](http://gazzymouse.tumblr.com/post/24674652389/im-scared-but-i-know-wade-cares-about-me)

The coffee is cold by the time that Peter finally takes a sip. Unsurprisingly, the mug isn’t quite clean and he grimaces when the cut on his lip collides with the chip on the rim of the mug. He opts for setting the mug down on the table with an ungraceful clank, wrapping his arms around himself.   
  
It’s not the first time he’s woken up alone after staying the night at Wade’s apartment. More often than not, Wade is already out and gone, all kinetic energy and inelastic collisions that cause destruction at random. That morning—noon, actually, he thinks and glances at his dying cell phone—he can hear the dull rush of running water in the next room, and knows he hasn’t left yet.   
  
He should leave before Wade gets out of the shower, Peter thinks to himself as he knocks an empty can with his foot. The place is filthy and the bruises on his skin remind him that nothing about Wade’s apartment is healthy. Despite that his muscles are ringing with dull aches, he remains perched on the cushion of the couch, idly checking his phone.   
  
Wade enters a little while later, towel firm around his waist and scars open. If only he had another layer of skin, Peter has always thought, to cover all the physical imperfections. But then again, neither are particularly beautiful now.   
  
“You’re still here.” It’s more of a statement than a question.   
  
“I was just leaving,” Peter says and shrugs, moving to stand. He knows Wade can see the bruises. They’re blooming violet reminders of the night before, some stretching longer than others, some darker like blots of paint that had forgotten to be wiped off.   
  
“What the fuck did you do?” Wade asks.  
  
Peter stares at him a long moment. He feels both nauseous and furious, but fragile at the seams. He breathes in, hoping to calm the acidic sensation crawling up his throat. “You did this. Last night.”  
  
“Did I?”   
  
The acid lurches again, and it feels like it’s eating through his skin, worse than any of the visible marks on his skin. Peter leaves, stumbling through the apartment door and back home. He won’t come back, he decides. Wade knows what he had done— _does, every time_ —and Peter doesn’t want anymore of the sharp edges and maybes. He’s scared. What if Wade goes too far?   
  
He can’t decide who he’s more mad at: Wade for not caring, or himself for going back.   
.  
.  
“Wade,” Peter whimpers, fists curling into the sheets of the mattress as Wade slams into him again. There’s a sharp pain on his shoulder, the edge of teeth and the wetness of blood—Peter thrashes under him, squeezing his eyes shut because _it hurts_.  
  
“Wade, it hurts,” he gasps, and focuses on the air moving in and out of his lungs instead of the rough collision of skin, “ _Stop_.”   
  
The pain jolts up his spine, but Wade only moans at the pained noises he makes, dragging his cock out slowly before slamming it back in so that Peter _screams_ from pleasure and mostly pain.   
  
There are hands around his neck, and he knows Wade is getting close because he has that feral, crazed look in his eyes and his thrusts become sporadic. Peter’s eyes widen, moving to try to get the hands off his neck but suddenly there’s pressure coiling around his wind pipe like a snake and he can’t breathe. The panic is almost as tangible as the hands on his neck, Wade’s fingers pressing into his skin.   
  
He feels light headed and terrified and like his body can’t move and oh god he’s going to die. Wade comes a moment later, and Peter gasps out at the slight ease on his neck, limbs kicking wildly to get off. He kicks his stomach, punching at him like it’ll make a difference, but manages to knock Wade off. He’s breathing in air with shaking gasps, feeling the tears burning his eyes.   
  
Peter doesn’t want to know what Wade’s reaction is. He doesn’t want to face the lack of sympathy and the slight satisfaction. He knows he gets off on it, but this isn’t just playing rough. For the first time, Peter is terrified enough to grab his clothes and run.   
  
He cares about Wade, for some reason. Maybe it’s more like a pull, that of forces and fields that he’s become mixed up in. And he knows Wade cares too. He can be tolerable when they’re not having sex, and maybe Wade doesn’t want this either. But neither want to have to deal with facing it.   
.  
.  
He doesn’t do it to hurt Peter. Which is ironic, considering that he knows exactly what he’s doing, and it’s exactly that. Wade simply does it because the thrill is too much for his lack of impulse control to say no to.   
  
If he felt guilt, he would probably apologize to him, or even acknowledge the marks. But it doesn’t bother him, not in any way that kidnapping a child that may or may not die for precarious actions would bother him.   
  
Wade wishes he could care more, but then again he also wishes that he didn’t look like a monster.

  
Peter could tell him no. Or rather, he could stop putting up with it—because Peter does lash back out at him, it’s just not enough to send him into a grand epiphany that this is supposed to be true love and that love doesn’t come with bruises. Peter could leave.   
  
The shower continues to run over his skin, and he leans against the cold tiles like he’s going to figure something out. Maybe he’ll come out of the shower a changed man, doused in baptism and enlightenment. Instead, the water continues to run over his scars and gets a little colder; nothing washes his scars away this time either.


End file.
